


Work-Life Balance

by sunshine_states



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Gen, M/M, vaguely SWTOR-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 06:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19784764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshine_states/pseuds/sunshine_states
Summary: There is a bookseller on Alderaan who never seems to sell any books.





	Work-Life Balance

In Aldera there is a shop, and in that shop is a man. He is a very ordinary sort of man, fair-haired and stout, with the kindly but distracted air of a scholar. His shop is full of books that somehow never make it out the door, and the backroom is full to bursting with luxuriant and somewhat nervous houseplants.

The anxiety of the flora, of course, is not something one would notice unless one were possessed of a certain Sensitivity. The Alderaanians call it _na’ara_ in their own tongue _,_ and in olden times it was considered quite the blessing. Now their children are tested when they are barely old enough to walk, and the ones with talent are sent to the Jedi Temple on Tython for training. Other, less fortunate children are sent in the other direction if they catch the wrong sort of attention. Alderaan is still at the frontline of the war, and everyone knows the Sith keep an eye out for fledgling Force Sensitives.

This isn’t something that would concern the bookseller, of course. He’s only an ordinary mortal like the rest of them, even if nobody can quite figure out how his wretched shop is still in business.

On this particular morning, he’s sitting in the tiny kitchen of his flat, sipping a cup of tea and waiting. The shop is closed – he likes to keep prospective customers guessing – and he is looking forward to having the books to himself.

Attachment is an undesirable quality among his people. So, he suspects, is his love of fine tea varieties and wine. He frowns at the expense report on the far end of the table, suddenly rather worried that the dark red vintage they drank last night shouldn’t be classed under “necessities.” In fact, he’s quite certain that it shouldn’t be.

The door to the bedroom swings open, and a rather tall and leggy figure stands in the doorway, seemingly trying for _dramatic_ and only succeeding at looking sleep-rumpled and annoyed.

“I can hear you worrying from in here,” the figure announces. “Honestly, Aziraphale, it’s seven in the morning.”

Aziraphale smiles. He’s aware in a distant sort of way that he shouldn’t feel quite so fond of an Enemy, but after so many years he can’t help it. “Good morning, Crowley.”

The Sith blinks at golden eyes at him. “Is this about the Council?” He says _Council_ the way the Grandmaster says _Empire_. “What’ve they done this time?”

“Well, if you must know, Gabriel seems to think I spent too much on food last month,” Aziraphale says. “And I hate to say it, my dear –“

“Bet you don’t.”

“- but I think that may be due to how often we dined out.”

“Three times!”

“At the most expensive place in Aldera,” Aziraphale says, patient. “So perhaps we ought to be more careful from now on.”

Crowley crosses the room and pulls out his favorite mug.

“Your lot,” he says, filling it with water, “are idiots.”

“Now, really, my dear –“

“How many spies do my side have over there?” the Sith gestures wildly with the mug. Water speckles the pale blue tile under his feet. “How many times has it turned out that, oh, whoops, looks like we’ve missed a _sleeper agent or ten_ in the Temple? Remember that business with the Councilor?”

Aziraphale winces. He had been very young at the time, but one of the most respected Jedi on the Council being – possessed, co-opted, puppeted, the description varied in the telling – by the Emperor had not been the Order’s finest hour.

“They commended me,” he says instead, staring down at his tea. “For ‘rescuing Alderaanian children from the clutches of the Empire.’”

“There you go, then!”

“How do I explain myself when those children mysteriously fail to show up in the Temple?” Aziraphale says desperately. “I’m not even certain that was the right thing to _do._ ”

“Bollocks,” says Crowley. “Adam Young would’ve been downright _miserable_ in the Temple, and you know it. Anathema’ll be good for him.”

“Yes, but,” Aziraphale says. “Well. Explaining that you’ve _lost_ the most powerful Force Sensitive the galaxy’s seen in centuries would be – how are you going to explain it to your side?”

Crowley looks rather green. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. ‘ _Dreadfully sorry, seems that accursed Jedi got to the Emperor’s son before we did.’_ Your side _do_ have a better track record. You know. Of stealing children.”

“We do not _steal_ –“

Crowley waves a hand. “’Training’ them, then. My lot are too obvious about it. Snatch ‘em right off the street.” His tone is light, but Aziraphale knows better; Crowley is very fond of children. Sometimes he suspects that Crowley was one of those hapless young people stolen by the Empire, but Crowley doesn't like to talk about his past. “Anyway, are you going to drink that?”

“Yes, I am,” Aziraphale says, hands curling around the teacup defensively. It’s cold now, but still delightfully sweet and floral on the tongue. “Make your own, you greedy thing.”

Crowley smiles, soft and fond. “All right.”

He sits down while the kettle boils.

“We’ll have to figure out a plan,” he says. “Just in case.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says. It hurts to say; he’d like to believe that his side are the good ones. That they mean well. That they’re the _answer_ to all of this – this senseless, endless, grinding war.

He isn’t entirely certain that’s true anymore.

“You’ll be all right,” he says, with more confidence than he feels. “The Sith aren’t terribly clever themselves. Present company excepted, of course.”

“ _Jedi,_ ” Crowley says, delighted, and his foot brushes against Aziraphale’s, affectionate and unusually forward, for them. “I think you like me.”

“Of course I don’t,” Aziraphale says primly, but under the table, he knocks their ankles together. Not something he can say out loud, not yet. But someday, perhaps. Once they’re safe.


End file.
